14

The Tunnel

With hands outstretched, Bog made his way deeper underground. He could hear Hornel pushing noisily away through the undergrowth outside the cavern, the rustling and footsteps growing fainter.

Bog flicked his tail. They’d escaped—for now. But would Hornel?

“He fooled the Troll Hunter once,” Small whispered, as if he’d read Bog’s mind. “He can do it again.”

“I just wished he’d gone home or somewhere else that’s safe. Why does he have to act the hero?”

“For the same reason you do?” Small said.

The fur on Bog’s back prickled. Maybe scrawny Hornel had something to prove, too.

The cavern was cool, moist, and soothingly dark. Once Bog’s eyes adjusted, he could see a cave spider with long arched legs suspended in midair. He felt millipedes scurrying past his feet. A breeze gusted from the opening toward the back of the cavern. A good sign.

Bog followed the breeze, hoping it would show them the way through the rock. With Small’s bulk, the space was cramped. Hannie was surprisingly quiet—maybe she finally understood the danger.

The cavern lengthened into a tunnel, leading deeper underground. Bog sniffed the breeze for the departing scent of Hornel and his mother. They were even farther off now.

His bristled fur relaxed. Maybe Hornel could escape the Troll Hunter. Maybe this darkness would lead to the Nose Stone.

The tunnel grabbed the wind from outside and twisted it into tiny whirlpools before thrusting it farther underground. Only Hannie was having trouble negotiating the uneven rock. He heard her stumbling, and even grunting.

“I can’t see,” she whispered. “Where are you, Small?”

Bog sensed Small turning sideways and then heard the swish of his tail.

“Grab on,” Small said.

“Where?” Hannie struck some body part against rock.

More swishing.

“Got it.”

“Good. Now hold on.”

When Bog could no longer see much, he felt in his rucksack for a candle and then used Jeddal’s flint stone to light it. He held the candle in front, sheltering it from the wind with his chest. Centipedes darted away from the light. Cave beetles scuttled into shadowy crevices.

The tunnel became a steep natural stairway of rock enclosed between narrow walls that just fit Small. The roof was low, too, so Small hunched over, scooping up bugs to snack on as he went.

“The Sleeping Giant would never have made it through here,” Small whispered.

They crept forward. Bog could smell water nearby—and hear it trickling through rock. When he began to doubt the tunnel would lead anywhere, the candle lit up a stone archway.

“Look!” His voice bounced off the curved rock.

He stepped through the archway, holding the candle high. An underground chamber sparkled with an eerie light. Streaks and pinpricks of light speckled the walls.

“Oh!” Small gasped.

“Where’s the light coming from?” Hannie asked, her voice pitched high.

“It’s silver,” Bog said, “reflecting the candlelight.”

Wiry veins of silver ore snaked everywhere, catching the light in intricate patterns. It had been chipped away in places, perhaps by the Sleeping Giant’s human partners. Farther in, the cave floor was flooded with water. A small underground stream sloshed and gurgled through the cavern and probably to the lake beyond.

“Sounds like Small’s stomach after he eats.” Hannie giggled.

“Do you see the Nose Stone?” Bog scanned for it. They had to find it. Jeddal’s life depended on it.

“No. Let’s go farther in,” Small said.

They plunged into the cold water, which slowed them down, tugging at Bog’s legs.

Toward the far end of the cavern stood a rough stone pillar about waist high for Bog and thigh high for Small.

Hannie’s eyes widened. “Is that what you’re looking for?”

Bog waded closer. Could it be? Please, Ymir, let us find it.

Silver lumps were arranged in a circle on the flat top of the pillar. Bog moved the candle closer, and the light reflected off the lumps.

Only then did he see it. In the centre of the circle—a place of honour. A plain grey stone.

Bog sucked in a breath.

“I can’t believe it.” Small shook his head.

“Let me see.” Hannie splashed beside them.

Small hoisted Hannie, holding her under her armpits. She gasped. “Is that the Nose Stone?”

“I think so.” Bog glanced at Small, who beamed. Could they really bring Jeddal back to life? He trembled, imagining the moment.

Hannie leaned forward. “Can I touch it?” She reached out a hand.

“No.” Bog slapped her hand away. His voice echoed through the cavern, startling Small, who lost his grip on Hannie, dropping her in the water.

Hannie squealed, splashing and spluttering.

“Sorry. You all right?” Small hoisted her out of the water, dripping.

Hannie climbed up Small’s chest by grabbing onto his fur. She settled on his shoulders and frowned at Bog. “What did you do that for?”

His stomached knotted. “The Nose Stone. It’s special. You shouldn’t touch it.” It had been in the hands of humans for too long.

“Why not? I found this place.”

Small nodded. “She’s right.”

“Yes, but…” She wasn’t worthy.

Then Bog realized he didn’t deserve to touch the Nose Stone either.

Silence fell over the cavern, except for the gurgle of the stream.

“Should we…take it?” Small finally asked.

“You get it,” Bog said. Small was a full troll.

“No,” Small said. “You do it. For Jeddal.”

For Jeddal.

Bog nodded, grateful for his friend. Then he reached for the Nose Stone, lifting it with both hands.

The Nose Stone was as big as Bog’s hand with his fingers extended. It was cold. Heavier than he expected. Mottled with shades of grey and flecks of off-white. One side was rounded and mostly smooth with a few warts, while the other was bumpy where it had broken off.

A tingle ran through Bog. He could almost feel the pulse of Ymir’s blood in the rock, his magic seeking a home. He held Jeddal’s chance for life in his hand.

On the pillar, where the Nose Stone had rested, a simple image had been carved into the rock. One large figure, perhaps the Sleeping Giant, reached out to a smaller tailless one, maybe a human. The carving was only a few lines, but it was enough for Bog to be sure this was the Nose Stone.

His skin warmed.

He could return to the clearing where Jeddal stood. He could free him from stone. He could help other trolls who’d been turned to stone.

Bog might be half human, but he could make up for what humans had done to trolls.

Small picked up the largest silver lump and gave it to Hannie. “For finding this place.” He grinned. “It’s time to start your own hoard.”

Hannie gaped. “Oh, Small! I’ll keep it forever. Bog, look. See how it sparkles? It’s so pretty.”

Both Bog and Small smiled. Small packed his rucksack with silver ore. Bog wrapped the Nose Stone in a cloth to keep it from chipping and then placed it at the bottom of his rucksack.

With Hannie admiring her lump of silver ore, they waded back the way they’d come. Bog and Small shook the water from their fur. They headed up the tunnel toward the entrance, leaving wet footprints behind them. With the Nose Stone in his rucksack, Bog felt as if he could tackle anything.

When they emerged from the tunnel, Bog hesitated. He saw no sign of his mother or Hornel—who had better be tucked into a makeshift den. The clouds had cleared. The sun was rising over the tips of the trees on the low eastern side of the Sleeping Giant. The distant settlement was quiet. Waves crashed on the shore of Superior Lake. Morning songbirds twittered.

Hannie squinted and yawned, shivering in her wet clothes.

“We need shelter fast. Maybe we should sleep there?” Bog jerked his head back at the tunnel.

Small studied the brightening sky and the shadows that still gathered under the trees. “I’d rather put some distance between us and the Troll Hunter. That opening is too exposed now.”

“Agreed.”

They shadow-slipped through the bushes and ferns, skirting a clearing where the first shafts of sunlight chased the darkness away.

“I saw a place earlier that should be large enough.” Bog shielded his eyes from the too-bright beams. “Hurry.”

He startled when he saw a figure standing ten paces away, on the edge of the clearing. Then he realized it was Hornel.

“Hornel! You’re all right.” Bog headed toward him—until his mother’s sharp odour sent a surge of horror through him.

He couldn’t swallow. He couldn’t exhale. Her scent evoked a new memory of a warm hearth made of bricks, dancing firelight, his father’s deep laughter mixing with his mother’s.

He shook his head, refusing to remember.

“I’ve been waiting for you.”

He heard her gravelly voice, speaking in troll.

She stepped out from behind Hornel. The Troll Hunter. Martinique Bottom. His mother.

He glared at Hornel—at the weak wobble of his nose.

“I’m sorry.” Hornel hung his head. “I tried. Really, I did.”